Vintage

With the fall of Afghanistan, I’ve been reflecting on my travel experiences there as a 23-year-old backpacker on the “Hippie Trail” from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Yesterday and today, it’s a poor yet formidable land that foreign powers misunderstand and insist on underestimating. 

In this final journal entry from 1978, stow away with me as I travel from Kabul over the fabled Khyber Pass to Pakistan.  

Friday, August 4, 1978: Kabul to Rawalpindi, Pakistan 

This was the morning I was psyched for. I don’t think I could have woken up feeling bad and I didn’t. Both Gene and I felt good. We had a last big Sina Hotel breakfast and caught our little 8:30 bus to Pakistan. 

This bus was the way I wanted to do Khyber Pass. I had dreamed of crossing this romantically wild and historically dangerous pass for years and it was very high on my life’s checklist of things to do — in the top five for sure. Now I was sitting on this kinky old brightly, but badly painted, bus next to a wonderful open window that let me lean half of my body out if I wanted to. Our seats were big and high yet crowded and the bus was full of Pakistanis and “Road to India” travelers. 

I was glad to get out of Kabul and almost immediately we were in a scenic mountain pass. From here to the border, while nothing by Pacific Northwest standards, was the closest thing to lush that we’ve seen in Afghanistan. We even passed a lake, but I saw no boats. I wondered how many, or how few, Afghans had ever been in a boat. 

Stopping in Jalalabad for a hurried lunch break, we were back on the road in 20 minutes. We were nearing the border and apprehension grew. We hoped it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle but by now nothing surprised us. 

The Afghanistan border station, while time consuming, was easy. We just sat around eating a melon and wishing we had money for a Coke. Actually, we had planned our cash reserves very nicely and were leaving with no afghanis. We waited our turn to be searched, filled out the form, got our passports stamped — the usual process, and loaded back on only to stop 100 yards later for our introduction to Pakistan. 

This place was pretty unruly. We piled into a room and one by one we were called up to the desk. The customs official “hunt and pecked” our vital statistics into his register and stamped our passports. 

Passports in hand, we knew we were just halfway through the process, but we weren’t sure where to go next. We wandered into one ramshackle building, and in a dark room, two men jumped up from two cots and welcomed us to lay down. No thanks! We got out of there and were overrun by dope dealers and black-market money chargers. Everything was so open and blatant that it almost seemed legal. We bought $10 worth or Pakistan rupees and then tried to get our bags searched so we’d be done. Frustrated in the chaos, we just got on the bus and skipped the baggage check. At our window we were entertained by lots of hash sellers and a particularly persistent man with a small bottle of cocaine — 4 grams for $30. I took his picture and told him to get lost. 

Finally we were loaded and ready to do it — to cross the Khyber Pass. I was thrilled. Physically, it was just like any other rocky mountain pass, but when you’ve wondered, dreamed, and thought about something for many years, it becomes special. Up and up the bus climbed. Hanging out the window, I tried to take in everything — every wild turn in the road, every fortress-crowned hill, every stray goat, every gaily painted truck that passed us, and every mud hut. I looked at the rugged people who inhabited this treacherous pass and wondered who they were, how they lived, what stories could they tell. Dry, rocky graveyards with wind-tattered flags littered the hillsides. Clouds threatened. We were moving out of the arid Arab side of South Asia and into the wet Indian subcontinent. From now on we would feel muggy — but enjoy the green countryside. 

We crossed the Khyber Pass and passed through a tribal village to pay a toll for the privilege. I could see the men around with rifles ignoring the bus and gathered in circles trading both goods and stories. 

In a few minutes we were in Peshawar and found that a direct train to Lahore was leaving in an hour. We saw nothing to keep us in Peshawar and the magnetism of India was getting stronger and stronger as we got nearer and nearer. We hassled around trying to decide how, what, and where to buy our tickets. This was a new experience — learning how to handle the Pakistani train system. A little bewildered and not sure what was our best move, we bought $3.50 ticket (first class) for the 12-hour journey, wolfed down a quick 60 cents dinner, and found a spot on the not-so-classy first-class car. 

The only difference between first and second class was padded seats and $1.50. We figured for 12 hours it would be nice to have the pads. Our car was very crowded. I was happy to be near a window that blew in hot, muggy air. We pulled out at 5:50, almost on time, and I savored the breeze.  

The countryside was flat, lush, and interesting. After a while, I began reading Orwell’s Animal Farm. It was good and the time passed nicely. Then it got dark, and the bugs came. The lights worked like on my old bike — the faster you go, the brighter they shine. This was not a very bright train. The bugs got on me so to speak and I made a bloody declaration “Death by ruthless squashing to any bug that lands on me from now on”. I decided that I would just mash them with my thumb or fingers and roll them through my arm and leg hairs until they disappeared — either rubbing in or falling off. 

The ride dragged on. We decided to break up the ride to Lahore at Rawalpindi, the halfway spot, catch an early train in the morning to complete the trip. 

It was nearly midnight as we stepped into the muddy puddled streets of Rawalpindi. There was a 5:15 train to Lahore in the morning so we could catch a good four hours of sleep — if we could catch a hotel. It looked very bad — every one was full and other people looking for a place were also frustrated. Luckily, I found a guy with a single open and a shower next door (Gene didn’t tell me about the lizards until later). Otherwise, it was a hole barely worth the10 rupees ($1) we paid. But it did serve its purpose. I took a cooling shower and found a comfortable spot among the bumps and curves of my cot and soon I had worked myself to sleep. Today was a good day — lots of miles covered, a new country and I had crossed the Khyber Pass. 

(This is journal entry #5 of a five-part series. If you missed any along the way, scroll back to Tuesday, Aug. 17 on my Facebook page.) 

With the fall of Afghanistan, I’ve been reflecting on my travel experiences there as a 23-year-old backpacker on the “Hippie Trail” from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Yesterday and today, it’s a poor yet formidable land that foreign powers misunderstand and insist on underestimating. 

In this journal entry from 1978, stow away with me as I ride 500 miles across Afghanistan and explore the capital city of Kabul.

Tuesday, August 1, 1978: Herat to Kabul 

At 4:00, we were woken up and it was dead night. No one should be awake at that hour but there I sat on the edge of my bed. We had a melon and caught our 5:00 Qaderi bus to Kabul. 

The bus was organized, punctual, and we were moving. Dawn was cracking as those sleeping on the sidewalks began to stir. Our boisterous bus honked loudly as if it was psyching itself up for the 800-kilometer ride that lay ahead. The road was good and we kept a good speed, stopping only for a quick Coke all morning. The countryside was desolate, hot, and foreboding. A herd of camels, a stray nomad or cluster of quiet tents, a mud brick ruin melting like a sand castle after being hit by a wave, and the solitary electricity line accompanied the narrow, but well-paved, US and USSR-built road across the Afghanistan desert. It really was not a scenic ride, but I gained an appreciation for the vastness of this country of 10 million people by the time the 14-hour ride was over. 

We had one short lunch stop where Gene and I had a Fanta and some peanuts and I got some use out of my zoom lens and then we raced on. This was the greatest ride. Our driver actually wanted to keep a good tempo. The countryside didn’t change all day. The same lazy, goofy camels and sleepy gray-brown mud castle towns kept passing with the stark dirt mountains jaggy in the background. We had three stops to pray to Mecca during the afternoon and just as darkness fell, we entered Kabul. Gene wasn’t feeling well so we took a cab to touristy “Chicken Street” and found the nicest hotel we could — the not too nice, but OK, Sina Hotel. 

Gene went straight to sleep while I had a lousy dinner with a friendly student from Philadelphia who was here to study the language. I’m spoiled after our great Herat hotel. 

Oh well, I’m in Kabul. Imagine that — so close to my dream — the Khyber Pass and India. I do believe I’m more than halfway around the world from Seattle. I’ll have to check a globe. I hope Gene’s better — and I’m still good — in the morning. 

 

Wednesday, August 2, 1978: Kabul 

It’s a mistake to go to bed without a watch. I slept ok but got up too early. Gene was in pretty sad shape so he stayed in bed. For breakfast I had a melon, a big carrot, and two boiled eggs and tea in the Sina Hotel courtyard. I was laid back from the start today because I knew we had two days in Kabul and there wasn’t much to get excited about. I talked with a German girl who was just recovering from an eight-day bout with “Tehran tummy” and who wanted to go home. Home is a very nice thought when you’re travelling to India. It’s even more heavenly when you’re sick. 

Getting down to business, I walked to the Pakistan bus company and got tickets for over the Khyber Pass into Pakistan for Friday morning. Then, with several incredibly persistent shoeshine boys tailing me, I ducked into the Pakistani embassy and was happy to learn that Americans need no visas to travel through Pakistan. We were set. Wow — Khyber Pass, Pakistan, and then on to India!  

Back at the hotel, I checked on Gene. He was feeling very rugged still. I brought him special magic tea and two boiled eggs and hung around for a while. His tendency was to fast and sleep it off.  

It was quite hot now as I set out to cover Kabul, what an unenviable task. I had no map or information. I really couldn’t get oriented in this blobby, hodgepodge capital. The city is like a giant village sprawling out along several valleys that come together. It seems to love its sadly dried-up river, which is very little water with a wide and rocky bed. It was hot and dusty, shade was rare, and I felt very obvious being alone and wearing my shorts. Nevertheless, I walked and wandered covering a good part of Kabul. 

I walked through some very seedy parts, searched in vain for the tourist information place, and caught a taxi to the Kabul Museum. It was a long ride and he fiercely resisted the 40 afghanis I paid him. He wanted 60. I thought 40 was very fair and finally, just to lose him, I paid 50. Then I found out that the museum I came to see was closed. Feeling a bit frustrated and down on the people who heckled and gathered around me, I hopped onto a crowded bus and rode it to its end which was just where I wanted to be. This was a busy place. The only real city in Afghanistan and it had quite a number of large buildings and fancy institutes. But the tribal chaos permeates everything. Around a modern department store there’s old men with donkey loads of tomatoes, little girls selling small limes, piles of honeydew melons with a guy sitting on top sleepily smoking hash. 

I checked out a fancy hotel and sat in the cool bar sipping a Coke and eating a nice girl’s bread and then I walked up to the top of “Afghan store,” the closest thing to a Western department store, and found a nice restaurant with a beautiful view of ugly Kabul. 

An old man had me sit with him and he said, “I am professor so and so. What is your name and fame?” He was very excited to have a meal with an American but I’m afraid I wasn’t really in the proper mood and I wasn’t very talkative. He told me he would never forget his meal with “Mr. Rick”. I taught him the do-re-me scale and what a radish was. That was the only thing on my plate that stumped him. He left and I finished my meal under the silent stares of the other diners and then I headed home. 

The evidence of the recent revolution is everywhere. Our bus was checked (for guns I assume) upon entering Kabul, copies of the headlines on the day of the change are seen posted, there’s an 11:00 curfew and soldiers are everywhere with poised bayonets. On the street I saw what was left of a tank, blown to bits and left as a reminder that the old regime was dead. 

Later we ventured into our cozy little Sina Hotel courtyard for the mild dinner. I worked on a honeydew melon, we both had boiled eggs, and tea. Gene had some of Sina’s special sick man’s tea. The rest of the evening was lazy and dull. I wasn’t looking forward to another day in Kabul but there was no earlier bus and this would be better for Gene.

 

Thursday, August 3, 1978: Kabul 

Today was malaria pill day and the end of our third week on the road. We were at the doorstep of India, most of our work was behind, and most of the adventure was ahead. Our health was tenuous at best but both of us were determined that nothing would stop us now. I swallowed my super vitamin with zinc pills with black tea and had toast and eggs before going out for a walk. I had no big plans for today — just to pass the time and enjoy myself. 

I walked down “Chicken Street”, the touristic high-pressure point of Afghanistan, oblivious to the countless “Come into my shop mister, just look”s and realizing that out of all the junk everyone’s trying to see, there was nothing I really wanted. 

I dropped by the American center to do a little reading and escape the noon sun and later I got Gene to join me. That was about the first time he’d been out of the hotel in nearly two days. We just relaxed and read old news. The latest Time magazine was censored by the new government here. They censor any issue with articles about the USSR. That has left us with old news to read. It’s just not the same, but it’s better than nothing. Reading American magazines on the road is like going to an American movie on the road — it brings you home for as long as you’re immersed in it. 

After laying around the hotel for a while, I put on Gene’s baggy, white Afghan pants, grabbed my camera, and caught a bus to the edge of town. It’s kind of nice not knowing or caring where you’re going. I just got on any old bus, paid one afghani, and rode it for as long as I wanted — which was the end of the line. The bus driver invited me for tea, I accepted, and the gang gathered around to stare. Boy, I must really be a strange looking dude to these people — they can stare endlessly. Last night I wrote a poem called “Afghan Eyes” about a little girl who stared at me for five hours on our bus ride from Herat. 

I put on my zoom lens and wandered into a group of tents where an entire community was living. It’s really a pity they were camera-shy. I managed to find plenty of Afghans, however, who were dying to have their picture taken and I did my best to accommodate them. Hopping back on a bus, I was soon back in the touristy world of “Chicken Street.” 

Gene was tired of being cooped up and he finally had an appetite. I was having a little loose-bowel trouble myself and, after taking several alternate turns each on the toilet, we walked slowly down the street to find dinner. 

The “Steak House” caught my eye when we first came to Kabul, and now we would try it out. I wasn’t counting on anything fantastic — just hoping. Actually, I got a very good steak and vegetable dinner for less than a dollar, complete with soup and a pot of tea. That hit both of our spots wonderfully. After the meal, we did a little money changing — getting rid of our Iranian and Turkish money and getting 50 Pakistani rupees. 

We felt better after that good meal and went back home. I spent the evening in the courtyard catching up in this journal, repairing a strap on my pack, and enjoying tea and a Fleetwood Mac tape. It will be very good to be on the move again tomorrow.  

Being so rich (even as a lowly backpacker) and so white in this poor and struggling corner of our world puts me in a strange bind as a traveler that I wish I could change. It’s kind of sad, but I realized today that I tend to build a wall between me and any potential friends in this beyond-Europe part of the world. In Europe I love to talk with people and make friends. That’s even a primary reason for my travels there, but here there’s something in the way. I think a lot of it is suspicion, lack of understanding, and fatigue. Also, most of the people who I encounter around here who speak English, seem to speak it only to make money off the tourist. I wish I spoke the local language, but I don’t. 

(This is journal entry #4 of a five-part series. Stay tuned for another excerpt tomorrow, as 23-year-old me travels from Kabul over the fabled Khyber Pass to Pakistan.) 

With the fall of Afghanistan, I’ve been reflecting on my travel experiences there as a 23-year-old backpacker on the “Hippie Trail” from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Yesterday and today, it’s a poor yet formidable land that foreign powers misunderstand and insist on underestimating. 

In this journal entry from 1978, stow away with me for another dreamy day in Herat, Afghanistan.

Monday, July 31, 1978: Herat

I didn’t stir for nine hours. After breakfast we picked up our rental bikes and began a little adventure. It felt good to have wheels. We could stop when we wanted and, if the people got too intense, we could make a clean escape. The breeze cooled us off and things happened at a much faster rate than when we traveled on foot.

Speeding through the part of town we already knew well, we headed for the old ruined minarets that we saw when we approached Herat two days ago. Checking out this historic site, an old man let us in the mosque for 10 afghanis and we saw the tomb of an old Afghan king.

Now we had seen the big historic site and we stopped to visit with some studious types in the shade. We had a nice chat and learned something about the culture and language. We also learned from our friend that we were spending too much money for just about everything. 

Coasting happily down the road, I took a string of fantastic photos. This is the photographer’s moment I’ve waited for so long. I got guys tossing melons, colorful girls sitting on curbs, lazy teenagers slouching on warm wagons, and lots of little tidbits of Afghan life. The people are genuinely friendly and proud, shaking my hand firmly and as equals. I did get one small fruit thrown at me but, all in all, this is one of the friendliest countries I’ve experienced. Any women who ventured onto the streets and who are post-pubescent are totally covered up seeing only through a tiny gridwork in the cloth that covers their faces.

We were determined to pedal in one direction until we reached the edge of town. After wetting our whistles with a Sprite, we made our way down the busy, dusty street until the city became more of a mud village like ones I’d seen in Egypt and Morocco. Taking side roads, we found ourselves enveloped in a new and different world. Quiet brown mud streets became high walls, long and narrow. The walls were broken occasionally by small shops and rustic wooden doors. Young and old sat around as if they were waiting for a stranger on a bike to happen by. I’m sure we were a very rare sight for them. I wonder if they enjoyed our presence or if we were violating their peace.

I experimented with different greetings from a salute to a child’s wave, to the solemn “kiss the hand and put it to the heart” that religious-looking types offer us. That one gets great results. I had a pocket full of candies for gifts and I feel better giving that than giving money.

You know, everyone in this happy society seems content and I’ve seen no hunger and very few hard case beggars. They have modest needs for their meager productivity and things seem to work out just fine and there’s more than enough tea, hashish, and melons for everyone.

We poked around until we had had our fill and realized that this was hot and hard work. Then, on the way back, we stopped off at a pile of hay being romantically thrashed by a couple of oxen pulling a wooden hay-chewing device. What a dreamy tourist and photographic opportunity! I pounced on the chance to drive the cart and had an unforgettable blast. I got to sit on the chewer, driving the oxen around and around and I think the peasants got as big of a kick out of me as I got out of them and their hay. That’s optimality. 

We got our bikes back after two hours and paid a buck each. We picked up a melon and retreated to our hotel. Feeling hot but happy, we stopped off at the pool, stripped to our underwear and took the chilly plunge. Instant refreshment! Wow! What a fantastic day we’re having! We frolicked around, took a few dives and some good photos and I thought “My goodness — this is what a vacation is supposed to be”. Dripping up to the room, we sacked out for a while and went down for lunch. Good sleep, good food, and my vitamin pills were my formula for the rest of this trip to be enjoyable and successful. I don’t think I can go wrong with that recipe, but we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?

After a rest and a few cold showers, the sun was a bit lower in the sky and we stepped back out. While I was deep into a bargaining match with a nice guy for the mink I had fallen in love with, Martin from the Istanbul-Tehran bus dropped by, and we chatted, and he highly recommended the endless bazaar. We said we were heading there. 

I had my zoom lens on and I got such a thrill out of zooming in on these lovely people. I can hardly wait to see my pictures. We morphed or melted from scene to scene soaking in all the bazaar images. What a sensual experience. We’d pass from water pipe making souks or neighborhoods, to tin pounders, weavers, beadmakers, bead stringers, people working billows, people sharpening knives on rickey foot-powered wheels, chain pounders, and nail benders. Everything was hand done. Old and young worked furiously at the same menial task all day long — all life long. I’ll never again complain about a long day of my work — teaching piano lessons. 

Each shop was about five yards across and every five yards was a new scene — a new glimpse of Afghan life. Some things we couldn’t even understand. At one point, little children wouldn’t give up asking for “baksheesh” (gifts of money) and we had to duck into a huge mosque where a policeman chased them away and we had to take off our shoes and pay him something to check this place out. It was impressive.

Now we were exhausted. Back at the hotel we went for a swim and a strange dog knocked my glasses off my bag and the lens fell out. I was worried but it popped back in — apparently good as new. I dread the thought of breaking my glasses and having to wear my high school hornrims that I brought for a spare.

Up in the room we tried out a little more hash and went out to mingle. Mingling was a bit intensified. Little things, like a man weighing tomatoes, tickled me special and I was more receptive to would-be pests and ready to poke around a little more freely. I didn’t know it was because of the hashish or because I was in a very good mood. 

We hopped in a funny little three wheeled taxi that looked like a souped-up ice cream truck for a ride to another part of town and I really got into some exciting photography. Existing light and lantern light subjects. I got men to pose precisely how I like them. I would even shove their chin up a tad or move the lantern closer. They could be exceptional, or they might not, but both my subject and I had a memorable time trying.

We goofed around some more and then hopped on a fancy two-wheeled horse-drawn buggy taxi. Charging all over town as if in a chariot, we sang songs really entertaining, or at least amusing, our driver. We surprised him with a confident 10 afghanis and he barely had time to gripe as we hopped off. These tourists weren’t taken for a ride except on a horse. I decided that if you try to agree to a price before boarding, they know you’re new at the game and they’ll rip you off. If you just get on and say “Home James” and pay them what you think is reasonable, you’ll do fine.

On our way home, I bought a lovely little five afghanis (1 cents) goody. Then we stopped by to check out my friend with the mink. I knew I’d find myself bargaining furiously again and that’s what happened. This was my third time in his shop and I knew if I went home without that mink, I’d kick myself. I love it just like I loved old “Ringworm” (a cat I befriended and took home back in 2nd grade — that gave me Ringworm). I finally went to 460 afghanis ($12) and came away with a great skin.

Now we were hungry and our hotel awaited. We are living so fantastically. Sitting down where the waiters know us, we ordered a hearty meaty meal with tea and a melon. We’ve been drinking the water and my stools are solid, so we had more of that. I feel so good. I’m in control and anything I desire, I can just get it. Wow.

Up in the room, I took a long shower, cleaned up my pack, enjoyed my little souvenirs, and hit the sack. I laid there with nothing on wondering how cockroaches got their name. (Maybe I am high, after all.)

People enjoy the same things all over the world. The old cleaning man ignored my plea for more toilet paper and said dreamily, “Look, isn’t it beautiful?” We both stood motionless on the roof of the hotel watching torch toting chariots gallop by as the sun sank behind the distant mountain.

We were sitting and talking with some studious Afghans in a park when one asked, “Aren’t you travelling with your women?” I said my girlfriend is at home and he replied, “Oh that’s very difficult — I could never do that.” I do feel like I’ve been “on the road” for a long time now. 

(This is journal entry #3 of a five-part series. Stay tuned for another excerpt tomorrow, as 23-year-old me rides 500 miles across Afghanistan and explores the capital city of Kabul.) 

With the fall of Afghanistan, I’ve been reflecting on my travel experiences there as a 23-year-old backpacker on the “Hippie Trail” from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Yesterday and today, it’s a poor yet formidable land that foreign powers misunderstand and insist on underestimating. 

In this journal entry from 1978, stow away with me as I explore Herat, the leading city in western Afghanistan.

Sunday, July 30, 1978: Herat 

A dream woke me at 7:30 and by 8:15 I gave up trying to fall back to sleep. Down at the restaurant I enjoyed two fried eggs, yogurt, and a pot of black chai. After cleaning my camera lenses, Gene and I set out to see Herat. 

First, we had two pieces of business — change money and get bus tickets. The bank was really something. It took nearly an hour to change my $100, but just sitting there watching the Afghani banking process was interesting. I saw suitcases of tattered afghanis, tribesmen coming in with five or six $100 bills (I’m afraid to imagine where they got them), a uniformed guard with a bayonet long enough for five or six bank robbers, and a rag-tag building and atmosphere. I had 3,858 afghanis coming to me. First the guy gave me 3,000. I said “more,” and he gave me 800. “More,” and I got 50 more afghanis, and then I asked for and got the last 8 afghanis. 

Next, Gene and I booked a bus ride to Kabul on the highly recommended Qaderi bus company. The 800-kilometer ride cost only $5 or 200 afghanis. Hopefully, we will get our seats and there will be no hanky-panky.  

We were free to ramble. I had a Fanta, put on the zoom lens, and went into action on a dreamy side street full of colorful flowery horse-drawn taxis, busy craftsmen, fruit stands, and dust. Each man who passed looked like something straight out of a travel poster. Strong powerful eyes behind leathery weather-beaten faces. Poetic wind-blown beards, long and scraggily, and turbans like snakes wrapping protectively around their heads. Old women totally covered by bag-like outfits carried children and called out, strangely enough, for pictures. I shot off nearly a whole roll and, with any luck, I should have some wonderful shots. 

We wandered away from the main center coming to a dusty residential area churning with activity. The people are so proud and there’s no one not very worthy to have their picture taken. Everyone was motioning us to come over, except for those who were too proud to acknowledge us. I didn’t really know how people accepted us strange, short-panted, pale-skinned, weak-stomached, finnicky people who came into their world to gawk, take pictures, and buy junk to bring home and tell everyone how cheap it was. I couldn’t help but feel like us curious tourists got old to these hardy, proud people who work so hard and live so simply. 

There were countless moments and scenes that blazed forever in my mind, a picture of Afghanistan. We worked up a mean thirst and we shared a watermelon in the shade before moving on. 

A bit tired, we headed back to our lovely hotel, had a plate of potatoes, a bowl of soup, and some chai (tea) and went up for a shower and a short snooze. We are really living well now for a change. I cashed that $100 and it feels so good to just spend money when you want to and not worry. 

Now we went back into the sun. The afternoon temperature was still cooking and every once in a while we’d soak our heads under a faucet. After mailing our postcards, we checked out a row of the cloth weavers. Hard-working men ran these ingeniously primitive looms tirelessly. Quite interesting to witness. Then, making a wide circle, we came to the big mosque, checked it out, and found ourselves in a neighborhood of very hard-sell shops.  

One pseudo-friendly guy took me by the hand and walked me into his shop, and before I knew it, I was wearing the wonderful white baggy pants and shirt and turban of the local people and bargaining madly. I was determined to work him down from 500 to my ceiling of 152 afghanis. I almost made it, but I was surprised when he let me walk away empty handed, a bit sad too. I want those cool, baggy, low-profile clothes and maybe, if I can swallow my pride, I’ll go back tomorrow and get them. 

Like running the gauntlet, we made our way in and out of shops back to our hotel. I tried and failed to get a lovely mink skin cheap. I did offer 200 afghanis for an exciting Afghan fox hat and ended up buying it and I proudly worked a guy down from 600 afghanis to 40 each for three little nicely embroidered pouches. I haven’t bought any souvenirs to speak of in two months of travel — now I’m afraid I’ve opened the floodgates. 

Back at the hotel, Gene pulled out the hunk of hashish that he bought and this, I decided, would be the time and place that’s I’d lose my “marijuana virginity.” I’ve never even smoked a cigarette and smoking pot has always turned me off, so to speak, because it’s always an object of social pressure and I would never feel comfortable doing it because everyone at a party was doing it and I was the only “square” one. That kind of pressure and the usual scene surrounding pot smoking reinforced my determination to stay away from the evil weed. But this was different. 

In Afghanistan, hashish is an integral part of the culture. It’s as innocent as wine with dinner is in America. If ever I was to experience this high, it wouldn’t be in a dark dorm room at the UW with a bunch of people I didn’t respect. I could never feel good about that.  

Gene and I talked about marijuana and hash for about three hours on the bus after we left Istanbul. I decided that, if I felt good about the whole situation, I’d like to smoke some hash in Afghanistan. Well, here I am in Herat, I feel great, and I love this town. We got about half a domino worth of pure hashish for 40 afghanis ($1). It was so smooth it had to be sliced with a knife. 

Up in the room, Gene mixed it with some tobacco and piled the product into a funny old straight wood pipe we picked up. He took a drag — immediately remarking, “Good stuff”. I sucked in not knowing what to expect and hoping not to get a mouth full of ashes. I don’t like smoke, but besides that, there was nothing repulsive about it. It didn’t even smell bad like marijuana. The only problem was nothing happened. I had smoked enough, but virgin runs are generally unproductive. It felt good anyways — I had done it. 

We went out for a walk. Going from shop to shop very casually. Mixing with people, nosing into shops, and just poking around. This place is small, but it really doesn’t matter because no street is ever the same if you walk through it a second or third time. 

For dinner we sat outside of our restaurant since there was a special wedding tonight in the big room. We had a plate of lots of different vegetables with lots of meat washed down by tea for $1.50 each. 

Upstairs we smoked a bit more and took a cold shower. This time I sensed a bit of a change. Certain colors and objects were more tangy. Things had a vibrant edge that I didn’t realize was an option. I was very relaxed and the light fixture on our ceiling looked like a big candle breathing in and out. But I still wasn’t really high. 

Downstairs the big wedding had begun, and the bride’s father proudly shook my hand welcoming Gene and me and we sat next to the little Afghan band listening to the exciting music and watching the women dance. Everyone was quite formal, the men were in one room, the women in the other, and the decorated car waited parked outside. 

Now we took a nighttime walk. Chariots with torches charged through the darkness, men carried lanterns, shopkeepers and the work boys squatted around soup and bread, many Afghans were high or getting there, it was cool, and, like always, the wind howled. The night was a great experience and we wandered. 

After a small melon, checking out the wedding once more, a cold shower with our sheets and making a nice wet bed, we commented on what a good day today was and, looking forward to tomorrow and wrapped in wet sheets, we went to sleep. 

(This is journal entry #2 of a five-part series. Stay tuned for another excerpt tomorrow, as 23-year-old me ventures deeper into Herat.)   

With the fall of Afghanistan, I’ve been reflecting on my travel experiences there as a 23-year-old backpacker on the “Hippie Trail” from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Yesterday and today, it’s a poor yet formidable land that foreign powers misunderstand and insist on underestimating.  

In this journal entry from 1978, stow away with me on the bus from Mashhad, Iran, to Herat, the leading city in western Afghanistan. 

Saturday, July 29, 1978: Mashhad to Herat 

My Spanish friend woke me at 5:45. I think I would have slept all morning if he hadn’t have come in. We caught a ride down to the station and, weakly, I searched for breakfast. Half a liter of milk and a small cake did quite nicely and we were on our way. 

Here was the beginning of a new world. Afghanis look Asian and Mongolian compared to Iranians and Afghanis and their twine-wrapped bundles of belongings filled the bus station. Our bus left at 7:20 and was pretty full of Western travelers — the most we had seen since the Istanbul-Tehran bus. 

Gene and I were quiet and weak. I kind of sat there, hot wind blowing in my face with my hair whipping around, hoping the kilometers would tick by and knowing I was plunging farther and farther away from Europe. 

At 10:30 we came to the desolate Iran-Afghanistan border. What a place! Just stuck in the middle of nowhere. We gave up our passports and walked into the building. An interesting museum with a message greeted us. In several glass cases were the stories and hiding places of many ill-fated drug smugglers. It made for interesting reading — who smuggled what in where and was sent to prison. I have this terrible fear that someone will plant some dope in my rucksack and I’ll get framed. That would be no fun at all. 

We got through the Iranian customs rather easily and then we walked across a windy desert no man’s land to a place bordered by abandoned, disassembled VW vans and full of local people piling into small orange busses. We just stood around. The wind and heat were fierce. The barren plain stretched out in every direction and I said to Gene, “So this is Afghanistan”. We found shade in one of the wrecked VW vans and peeled a small apple. Then a bus came and we piled in. Stopping for a quick passport check, I couldn’t believe it was so easy. It wasn’t. 

A few minutes later our bus pulled into the search yard and we unloaded to sit and wait for the bank and doctor’s office to open up. 

And here I sit. The time is good for nothing but catching up in the journal, which I finally did, and thinking. As I brush big ants off me and shield my eyes from sand and blowing things, I wonder about all the fun things I could be doing. I think of friends back home, of my parents at leisure in their yacht up in cool, green, refreshing British Columbia, and the fun I could be having in Europe. I am glad I’m finally doing this but I’m really looking forward to the end of it all. I’m hoping for health, no hassles, and a good flight back to Europe. 

The funny little bank opened up and to change my 100 francs note I had to make three signatures, write down the serial number of the bill and ask several times for the correct change. I came away with 775 afghanis. 

The next few hours tried my patience as we bounced from one dusty office to the next getting everything taken care of so we could enter Afghanistan. The luggage “search” was little more than a glance, our shot certificates were checked, the police and the customs officers checked us out, we had Fanta and then finally everyone packed back onto the orange bus and we were on our way — or so we thought. 

About 100 yards later there was a police check and most of the Polish travelers on the bus flunked it and had to go through more red tape. Then we headed into the dusty vastness of the Afghanistan wasteland. 

The countryside was dry and barren, backed by stark brown mountains and broken every once in a while by a cluster of mud huts, some old ruins or a herd of goats or sheep. It always feels good to enter a new country. So far this summer I’ve only explored two new ones. But everything that lies ahead is as new as can be. 

Just when it looked like we were getting somewhere, a dispute broke out in the front of the bus. The Afghanis decided to double the price of the ride from 50 to 100 afghani. Us tourists were stubborn and we refused. One rugged looking Afghan pulled a knife while the driver turned around and headed back for the Iranian border. You could say they had us over a barrel. 

There was an uproar, and everyone was trying to solve the problem. One soft-spoken but commanding Pakistani urged us to pay but we all believed if we paid there was nothing stopping them from pulling the same trick again. We compromised — giving them 60 afghanis now and paying the rest upon arrival in Herat. After that episode we were all on edge and I think if they tried to get any more money, they would have had a lot of trouble from their worldly bus load of hardened travelers. 

We stopped at a desolate tea shop with a well and a bunch of locals skinning a still warm goat. There was a sign reading “hotel” and I expected the worst. Lots of people are notorious for “highly recommending” certain hotels. This was just an innocent tea stop, however, and it provided Gene and me with our first good look at Afghanistan. The leaky well provided everyone with cold, filthy water. I wallowed in it, really cooling down nicely. We shared a 25-cent melon and my weak, starving body gobbled it down. I felt like I’ve really abused myself by not eating much. For two days I’ve forgone any real meals and just drank pop and sucked on melons. I decided from now on I’d eat well and stay in good hotels for both my mental and physical health and to keep my spirits high. 

The tea house was exactly the image I had for an Afghanistan tea house. Old traditionally clad men, who looked like they worked hard but who never seem to do anything but lazily sit around, sitting on rugs on the floor drinking tea and smoking hashish. The room filled with smoke and their glassy dark eyes smiled. A few of us tourists joined them and I just stood over my melon rinds looking in the window like I was watching a documentary on TV. The word spread — our driver was high and the crew would be quite mellowed out. What a bizarre society. I guess when materially you’re so far behind you just give up — sit in the shade eating melons, drinking tea, and smoking hash. 

Back in the hot bus we made it to Herat and it dawned on us, “You know, this place looks quite nice.” We were definitely in a new and different culture and both Gene and I perked up. I punched him on the shoulder and said, “Ok, now our trip begins!” 

Herat was, like our minimal guidebook info said, “hard not to like.” Very green, as far as towns in this part of the world go, and with lots of parks, I liked Herat right away. Sick of cheap, scuzzy holes, I lobbied for a first-class hotel. We found a dilly. 

Hotel Mowafaq, the fanciest hotel in downtown Herat, was just what we needed. Centrally located, showers, swimming pool, clean restaurants, and free of all the con men who plague cheaper hotels, this would make us feel human again. I feel like a bit of a softy, but I love a place that I can leave my stuff in without worrying and walk around in barefoot and get easy peace when I need it. Our double cost only 200 afghanis ($5) and we were prepared to spend more. 

We had a Sprite and walked around this central square of Herat stopping in a small clothing shop where Gene and I might get some local clothes so we can go “native” for the rest of the trip. The local baggy clothes make a lot more sense, and they’d be fun souvenirs too. Gene ended up buying a chunk of hashish for about $1 from the guy. We’ll wait and see what we’ll do with it. 

Now we were ready to clean up and have a feast. A lovely cold shower and an enjoyable and highly successful stint on the real sit down toilet (you don’t appreciate life’s little things like a toilet to sit on until you don’t have them). Stepping out of the bathroom I thought, “Nice, the diarrhea I had yesterday was just a quick little punishment for bragging how I’d been travelling with solid stools for two months, and now I am a new man.”  

Downstairs we ordered the two local specialties that they served on Saturdays and we noticed that the menu had a little note on each page. Since the People’s Revolution, all prices are lowered by 10 afghanis. That made each meal cost only 50 afghanis ($1.25) for soup, bread, rice, meat, and cold water. We were both thirsty and the cold water attacked our self-discipline like the forbidden fruit. We succumbed to it and it was good. I couldn’t help feeling “iffy” about it like I always do when I drink questionable water but that didn’t cut down on its initial goodness. Black and green tea in good sized pots finished the meal nicely and I can’t believe how everything has turned around so wonderfully. 

The people here are wonderful, soldiers and police are present on the streets in the wake of the recent revolution. Horse-drawn chariot-like flower-decorated taxis charge down the streets. We stood on the breezy balcony under the stars thinking the only thing not different about this place is the constellations. 

My hair is fluffy, there’s air conditioning in the hall, and a bug screen on our open window. The light has a fixture, my teeth are clean, my stomach is full, I feel healthy (and hopefully expect to be tomorrow) and I think I’ll go to bed early tonight. It’s so important to live good and enjoy oneself and, without going through periods of misery and discomfort, you can’t really know what it is to enjoy.

 

(This is journal entry #1 of a five-part series. Stay tuned for another excerpt later today, as 23-year-old me explores Herat, the leading city in western Afghanistan.)